


the Atypical roommate

by orphan_account



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, Coffee Shops, Damien needs a lesson in humanity, Damien regaining his powers, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epilepsy, Future, Gay Damien, Headaches & Migraines, Jae - Freeform, Job Loss, Lack of Communication, M/M, Medical Jargon, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Roommates, Seizures, Slow Burn, Therapy, and they were roommates?, graphic description of seizures, original atypical character, past mark/ damien, telling the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25817593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: set after the main series, daniel is just trying to find a roommate and ends up with an asshole named Damien.  his epilepsy is getting worse and Damien seems to have answers to things he shouldn't. after losing his job as night security, Dannie needs to learn to take help from others, including his new therapist.
Relationships: Damien (The Bright Sessions) & Original Male Character(s), Damien (The Bright Sessions)/Other(s), past Mark Bryant/Damien
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

My roommate was supposed to move in three days ago. Usually, this wouldn’t be a big deal but I need someone else to help with rent, the landlord is already treading on my heels about the massive dent in the drywall; late rent payment this month is out of the question. The guy on Facebook had messaged me over a month ago confirming he would be here this week and yet-

I don’t have time to worry about this right now, I’m almost at my stop and I’d rather not walk a block in, pitch dark to get to work, but the idea of a stranger I’ve met once with the keys to my apparent put me on edge. 

The bus rattled to a stop a few stores down from the tech work I work at, my phone already buzzing as my boss texts me again that I’m over ten minutes late and better get my ass in there as soon as f-ing possible. It’s only a little past midnight and I wish I had the balls to leisure strut in, but I need to paycheck like I need air, so I dash towards the front doors. 

It’s nice that Kaitlyn’s on shift tonight because she doesn’t do much of anything. I don’t either, watching security feeds and doing analysis doesn’t take too many brain cells, it’s not like they needed a college diploma anyway. Mine’s technically fake but they didn’t bat an eye. Why would someone willingly try to get a night shift sifting through shitty security cameras?

My doctor suggested a night job could lessen my chances of having another episode so here I am, watching those shitty security cameras. Kaitlyn’s painting her nails and I’m picking at the paint on the cuff fo my sweater. The smell of her nail polish is giving me a headache so I start moving my chair away from hers ever so slightly, but there isn’t much room to move in such a cramped space. The light above us flickers which makes my headache worse and I start my countdown to the end of the shift. 

Kaitlyn is smart and had her analysis of her shift written out before the shaft ended, but I forgot to record that the only things that happened in my sections were just the janitor accidentally knocked over a small display and that the alarm went off again after a kid accidentally set if off by smoking too close to the doors. 

My clothes smell like stale air and nail polish as I scurry after Kaitlyn, who has decided to hold the door open for me. Its the crack of dawn and she somehow still looks bright-eyed. I probably look like the raccoon that likes to hang out at the back of the coffeeshop I also work at. She smiles and says “good morning, daniel” just like she does at the end of our shared shifts, and then shes’s off into the day. Im still reeling from the first breaths of fresh air I’ve had in eight hours.

The coffee shop I work as it a brisk ten-minute walk from my night job. I’ve checked, it’s legal in my state to work two full-time jobs as long as I pay taxes. I do pay taxes, but with the shitty pay from both, I’m still in the same tax bracket as most people working just one. 

The only good thing about working two jobs is one requires a caffeine fix that the other provides. Im allowed two free drinks a day, both of which I take in the morning along with my meds that rattle in my backpack; what Dr. Torrie doesn’t know won’t hurt her. 

I change in the backroom because im always on opening shifts and the first one in. my nametag reads daniel with a sunflower sticker beside my name. It’s a little joke with my coworker Alice because my last name is summers. She’s thirty years older than me and likes to call me sunshine, even though I’m convinced I’m a lighting cloud. 

“Monin’, sunshine,” she calls jollily across the shop as she opens the door with a bright ring from the bell that signals a new customer.

“Hey, Alice,” I say a little sheepishly through a yawn

"Jesus Christ, Dannie, I thought I told you to get some sleep!” she chastises me from the door. She’s technically my manager but she’s more like my mom. 

“And you know what my schedule is like, I’ll take a nap during my lunch break or something,” I mutter as I start making myself a double shot espresso. She gives me a hearty pat on the back for that comment. 

We do our morning dance of getting everything ready for the morning rush of customers, only around ten or so on a typical day, but they always arrive right at 9 am. I’ve got Sharon’s typical order in our toaster oven right as Alice opens the door. It takes me a moment before I recognize him. 

Its the guy who was supposed to move in three days ago! 

He’s not too tall, but he’s dressed in black from head to toe, it’s like he wants to look like a shadow. I can't imagine dressing like that in the middle of summer here, its hot as hell today and im already sweating. Alice has to give me a decent shove to I remember to grab Sharon’s bagel from out of the toaster oven before out fire alarm goes off. 

I can't get the thought of why he’s here out of my head. I had met him at work after putting up a roommate wanted notice on our community bulletin board, and he had just snatched it and said he would message me on Facebook, or text me or something. 

Hed seemed dodgy but id had wanted him to be my housemate, at least at the time. 

It’s too late now, I’d given him the keys already, his stuff is already in my- our- house now. 

“I didn’t know you worked here during the morning,” he said in that strange low and ominous voice he had, making me almost jump out of my skin, but instead I just froze. 

“Oh, Damien,” I mumble, trying to get out of this guy’s creepy shadow. I have made a terrible terrible mistake. I can tell he wants something from me. Maybe since we’re gonna be good ol’ roommates he wants a free coffee?

“Im not giving you free drinks,” I say curtly, somehow getting over my brief moment of panic. 

“Well that’s rude, we’re just getting to know each other, future pals and all that.” he’s leaning possessively over the counter as if he’s trying to read the menu, but I know it is some sort fo powerplay. He smells like cigarette smoke and something else I can’t place. It’s giving me a headache. 

And then I see little sparks in the corners of my vision and I immediately put down whatever is in my hand and nock the counter twice. Alice gives me a worried look but doesn’t say anything as she takes over for me while I dash into the breakroom. 

Everyone who works at our coffee shop knows I have epilepsy. It’s not a hidden secret after Jon found me in a full drop seizure and almost called an ambulance. The full ones only last a minute or two, but more commonly I have absent seizures, the ones where I space out for a few seconds or drop whatever im holding. 

The headaches are the worst though. That’s how I can tell im about to go down. For me, it typically goes, splitting headache with an aura then a seizure. Im hoping its not a full attack when I fall to the ground. 

I see flashes of Damien; he looks better, or sometimes worse. He’s angry and yelling at another man and then he’s happy with a dog, and then he’s alone and crying. I see a few flashes of him in my- our- house. I see me and him on the couch watching movies, I feel myself angrily locking the door-

I come back around and Alice is handing me a juice box and giving me another sad smile before the ring of the bell pulls her hack to work. I take a few seconds to re-orient myself, check myself over for any injuries. Just a sore spot where I must have hit the wall with my head, but nothing too bad. 

I take a few sips of my juice box, even though my seizures arent related to blood sugar spikes or drops. Dr. Torrie still isn’t sure what my trigger is, but she thinks it might be anxiety and lack of sleep. 

That certainly fits the story with Damien. 

I go back to work as if nothing has happened. The headache from my encounter with my new roommate doesn't go away. 

I don't have anther tonic seizure at work but think I space out a few times. I almost dropped a mug while washing at the end of the day as I get some pathetic hallucinations of me making dinner, each the same but I make different foods.

Im thinking about if Damien will be a messy person or a tidy person when im on the bus, and next thing I know is im flooded with images of Damien’s and my stuff mixed up together or incredibly separated with a harsh like of tape between out sections. 

I laugh before realizing I must have spaced out again and missed my stop.

Even though I have prepared myself to find someone else in my home I realize with a sinking feeling it’s still weird to walk into a space that hs always been yours to find things slightly askew. There’s and two extra pairs of shoes at the front door now, and the kitchen cupboard with all of my two mugs is open and another three have been added. It’s the small things. The house a two-bedroom apartment. Its a one-bedroom apartment but you can strategically fit a bed in the other room so it still counts. Never really used it for much so Damien didn’t need to move anything out; besides, I’ve been prepared for him to move in three days ago.

There’s a breeze and only after my hair hitting me in the face for the third time do I realize that the back door is open. I didn’t even take off my shoes before I dash to the back door, my eyes must look frantic because Damien gives me a look that seems to say “common, really?” when he sees me. 

He’s smoking and the smell makes my nose burn a little. He’s sitting on the back porch with his head loosely tipped back to look at me.

“Close the door if you’re going to smoke.” I grit out before closing the door on him and leaving him outside like a stray cat. 

Im not cat person anyway. 

It’s 6 pm when I wake up from my afternoon nap. I only have a few hours before I need to get back to work but the idea of dragging myself out of bed seems impossible at the moment. 

There a sound from the kitchen and fear makes the blood freeze in my arteries. Im still, not even breathing when another sound comes from the kitchen. 

“Fuck! there does this guy keep his spoons?”

And I once again need to refresh my brain with the fact I now have a roommate.

I stumble out of bed, I grimace at the fact I slept with my shoes on, and pray that Damien hadn’t been a complete asshole and ruined my- our- kitchen.

He’s cooking bacon in a frying pan on the stove and is cooking some eggs at the same time. He’d taken off the brooding jacket to reveal a loose maroon shirt, still dark and ominous but at least not black. 

The smell of bacon is almost too much for me, a lowly vegetarian. Meat’s too expensive for me to buy so I mostly survive on peanut butter, chickpeas, and lentils. 

“What-” I start but my voice cracks from sleep and adrenaline so I start again, “what are you doing?”

“Oh, good morning princess. sleep well?” he asks over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. 

I clear my throat before replying, “I guess? But-”

“Dinner,” he says as if that clears any infusion. _Yeah no shit, but why_? “you kinda just passed out so I thought I’d be a humble roommate and make something.” 

“How thoughtful. Is it poisoned?” im slightly taken aback by my rudeness, but this guy just screams douchebag. 

“Geez, what does a guy have to do to get some human decency around here? You shut me outside then ask if im poisoning you after making you food? Woah, dude, you must hate me or something.” he’s not too far off, I am seriously regretting this. 

“I don't hate you, but you need to keep the door closed if your smoking- windows too,” I add for safe measure. 

“Whatever you say, darling,” he says before turning back to his cooking. I can tell the eggs are going to be a bit burnt, the pan is too hot and he didn’t add enough milk, but I do appreciate not having to cook dinner for once. 

I pour myself a glass of water, my meds and the small journal I keep with all of my pill bottles. I can feel Damien giving me a strange look and I can tell he wants to ask; I feel like I want to tell him. 

But I don't. 

Instead, I write down my number of each type of seizure, around the time and any possible triggers I can think of (there aren’t many, just sleep and more caffeine.) there were a few more than yesterday, a handful of absents and one tonic-clonic. It’s still irregularly high for someone with JAE.

I take my evening meds all in one gulp and find Damien staring at me when I look up. Its the first time I’ve gotten a good look at his face, his nose has been broken, that much is obvious. He looks run down and thin, almost too thin. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks and im torn away from examining him. 

My mouth falls open slightly at the blunt question. “What?”

“What’s with the meds,” he clarifies. 

“It was on the flier, if you’d bothered to read it then maybe you’d know.” it’s harsh, and I should tell him so he doesn’t call an ambulance if I were to have a drop seizure at home, but that never happens. 

I can practically feel his curiosity, its like the walls are pushing in on me under his piercing blue gaze. 

“Epilepsy,” I finally say, caving into the pressure. “Juvenile absence epilepsy. I got diagnosed when I was 17.” he makes me feel like there is nothing id rather do at this moment than to give im my full diagnosis. “I also have severe migraines and hallucinations-”

“Hallucinations?” one of his eyes can't open as far as the other I realize as he looks at me with wide eyes.

“Yeah, well they’re just flashes. Nothing fancy,” I mutter as I try and get around Damien, who already had a plate of bacon and eggs. I get some eggs and grab the bottle of hot sauce out of the fridge. 

“Didn’t know having fits could cause that,” Damien sneers as if he knows that it gets under my skin.

“They’re not ‘fits’ they’re episodes or seizures,” I growl as I forcefully shove a piece of bread into the shitty toaster.

“Sucks to be you then.” hse says smoothly, punctuating the end of the sentence with a crisp bite of bacon. The small makes me feel sick. Meat is gross and I refuse to cook it.

“Yeah. sucks to be me,” I mutter as I squeeze behind him and almost shove him out of the way to get my jar of peanut butter, the crunchy kind because I am not a heathen.

The air around us changes. “Oh common, don't take it like that,” there’s something left unsaid, but I don't push. Damien does though.

“How am I supposed t ever bond with you if you keep shutting me down?”

I take a moment to think about Damien and I bonding. We’re going to be shit roommates, I think sourly. I try to imagine how this could possibly work when I feel my brain start to melt. I think it’s only a headache, I don't feel as though im about to drop, but the pain in my head grows and I almost drop the jar of peanut butter to clutch at my head. 

“What are you doing?” I can tell through the fog of pain he’s trying to sound indifferent, but he’s worried. 

“Shut up.”

“Are you having an episode?” he asks using air quotes around the word episode. “I used the proper term are you happy-”

“Shut up!”

My yelling makes me groan and I feel an invisible hammer tries to separate the to halves of my brain. Im trying to hold on but already there are flashes of multiple hallucinations of Damien and me, we look like we’re fighting, then another we’re sleeping on the couch, were in a car, we’re fighting again, he’s crying, im in the hospital. 

When I come out of it im still standing, but my jar of peanut butter is shattered on the floor and my head hurts like a motherfucker. 

“Fuck my peanut butter,” I whisper, momentarily forgetting my head to try and pick up the pieces fo shattered glass. the act of bending over almost makes me pass out

“- what the hell, I was calling you-”

“Absent seizure. Im fine.”

“What the fuck-”

“Damien, my head hurts and I will throw up on you if you don't stop yelling.” I hope deep in my soul that he is not a sympathy puker. 

“Go sleep it off or something, “ he says after a moment, his sharp gaze softening just slightly. It might be my fuzzy eyesight though, I can barely see in the bright light of the kitchen.

I trudge over to my room and once again fall asleep in my shes, sleeping through my alarm for work at 11:30 and completely missing my shift.

I only wake up to my boss calling me at 8 am informing me that I'm fired.


	2. Chapter 2

“Shit!” I yell as I try to throw on a pair of pants at the same time as think of how I can possibly beg for my job back. “Fuck, fucking shit what the-” my cursing is interrupted as Damien shoves open the door to stick his head into my room. we both stare with wide eyes at each other, me only in boxers and one leg of my jeans and him in sweatpants and the same hoodie from yesterday.

“Are you good or…?” he trails off, his expression hardening into its usual unimpressed look. 

“I just got fired, of course I’m not good,” I snap, harshly tugging my jeans on. I need to be at work right now, I cannot afford to lose both jobs. 

Damien either doesn’t know how to comfort people or just doesn’t care, as he doesn’t say anything as I shove my way past him.

"Where are you going?" He demands a few moments later as I'm angrily throwing on a hoodie overtop of yesterday's work shirt. I'm halfway out the door already, one arm in my hoodie as I try and pull on my shoes.

"Work," I growl. I had planned on saying none of your business, however my brain is busy with other things. 

He drops the conversation after that and it brings me a sense of relief like the pressure has been released from my consciousness. Communication isn't my strongest quality, so the constant need to update Damien on my life is exhausting. 

Alice is there before me today, something that rarely happens; I'm usually early due to my other job being closer than my house.

“Good Morning sunshine,” she greets cheerily. I try and smile back but my heart is still sinking into my feet. The fact I’ve lost almost 450 dollars off my weekly income is finally setting in. That’s-

“Sunshine, sweetheart, you’re not looking so good. Is everything okay?” Alice interrupts my spiralling thoughts.

_oh_ , I realize that I’m still standing in the doorway “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” I say, and I know my voice gives away the fact that I am absolutely not good. It’s such a sharp switch from the anger I felt towards Damien this morning that it gives me whiplash. 

Alice once again doesn’t say anything but gives me a warm smile and hands me a cup of coffee; she’s memorized my usual order. 

Work is pretty normal for the most part, but there is a group of college students sitting and talking about their upcoming midterms and I keep spacing out and having hallucinations of them. I've had this conversation with my doctor. She says that my hallucinations must be connected to who or what I'm thinking about when I space out. Honestly, everything I've learned about my epilepsy is that I'm a medical anomalyI; I'm the atypical case that doctors tell their other doctor friends about. 

I should really start seeing a therapist again

_not with my current money situation._ I remind myself. 

I don't give myself time to process the fact I've lost my job until my shift is over. It's pouring with rain as I wait for the bus. of course I hadn't thought to bring a rain jacket and my thin pullover is soaked through as I slowly realize I must have missed the bus. 

I've always had a habit of laughing when I'm too emotionally overwhelmed, so I'm unsure why it's a surprise when I burst out in hysterical laughter. 

The next bus doesn't show up. 

I've got twelve dollars in my wallet so I walk to the nearest hardware store and buy the cheapest bottle of spray paint I can and head over to the old bridge known for its graffiti. I'm usually careful to only tag at night when it's hard to see, but I'm too upset to care. 

The police have stopped trying to catch the street artists in the act, and the city has stopped paying people to clean it up. It's a jumble of tags, angry punk teen's poems, and an attempt at a mural that was left half-finished. 

I haven't been here in years; there have been new additions, but it still looks the same. The neon yellow paint I'd grabbed won't be opaque enough to show well, but as soon as put pleasure in the nozzle I feel the anxiety squeezing my chest start to be pushed into the background.

I took art when I was in high school. it was my escape from using words to describe my feelings. I never handed in the actual assignments my teacher assigned, but I did decently well in the class after he realized I did work during the class and took my personal work instead of useless sketching assignments.

It was around the time I was diagnosed with JAE that I started tagging. That's how I started up anyway with the street art and graffiti scene. It was a secret that only my sister knew about, I don't think mom ever found out about it. I found that I didn't have as many episodes when I was by myself working on a wall with my shitty spray paint cans, so it makes me smile when I see a section of a tag I made long ago poking out from under fresh paint. 

I like to think I've developed as an artist, if you can call me that. I've become more familiar with the medium, even if it's been a while since I've picked up a can. I spray with one hand and hold my pullover over my mouth and nose. This always gives me a headache, but once I start I can't stop until my can is empty. I'm not sure what I've painted in highlighter yellow, but I think it might be a patch of sunflowers with skulls instead of seeds. I sign it then realize it's fucking freezing.

It's later than I thought -around 7 pm- when I check my phone. The rain that had soaked my pullover is now ice cold due to the autumn chill. My teeth are chattering as I toss my empty can in the trash and make my way over to the closest bus stop that can get me back home.

Damien isn't home when I get back. I check outside and I'm tempted to peek into his room, but the ground between us is already rocky enough as it is. Instead, I open up my phone fully intending to listen to Spotify when I see that Lora has texted me. 

_huh_... she doesn't usually do that. 

My big sister, Lora. Always mom’s favourite and way more fortunate than me. No messed up genetics, a steady job, two kids, and a loving husband, what more could you want? She’s always been more of a mom to me than our actual mother. I was an accident and Lora was not. I had issues with authority and Lora did not. I have epilepsy and Lora doesn't. Not that mom didn't love me… she just had a different way of showing it.

Sometimes the original is better than the remix, after all.

_fuck, I really should see a therapist_

“I wonder why she’s texting me” I mutter to myself. It wouldn’t hurt to check… right?

**From Lora: hey Dannie! Haven't heard from you for a while and just want to check in on how my little brother is doing. Ellie is wondering if you want to come to her 6th birthday party on the 17th? Mom will be there and she wants to see you too. I doubt you have plans but just wanted to check ;) XOXO- Lori**

_from Me: screw you! also sounds fun. but... I have work on that day. Can't you do it on a weekend like a normal person? ~~and if mom wants to see me then why doesn’t she tell me that?~~ _

I give her a few minutes to reply, but she’s never very good at responding to texts. Neither am I, so I suppose it runs in the family. I toss my phone to the side and groan as my knees pop as I get up to start making dinner. 

I need to go grocery shopping, I realize when I open the fridge to realize there is practically nothing. I think about eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich before I remember that my peanut butter had shattered on the ground the evening before. 

“Fuck!” I yell to no one but the empty room. Or at least I think it is.

“Wow, language Daniel, you wouldn't swear like that in front of your mother would you?” Damien snickers from the half-opened door. There are no clues to where he has been; no work uniform or nametag. He looks the same as he did when I rushed out the door this morning.

“I am not in the mood, Damien.”

“Not even if I brought home booze?” he asks in a mockingly fake tone, the clicking from the bag he’s holding punctuating his question.

“I don't really… drink,” I say eventually, alcohol and my meds mix even worse than caffeine.

“Aw common, Dannie- Can I call you Dannie?” he asks it as a rhetorical question. I know he's just going to call me Dannie anyway even if I say no, so there's no harm in saying yes. 

“Yeah, whatever. Sure.” I shrug. It gives him no power if it doesn't bother me. 

“Anyways, there's always a first for everything. You look like you need a drink. I certainly do.” he mutters the last bit as he pulled out a case of coke and a small bottle of rum. “It's not my favourite combo, but it's cheaper than straight whisky,” Damien mumbles something about diluting it to last longer as he opens one of the coke cans and takes a few gulps before cracking open the rum bottle and pouring a hefty amount into the can. 

I accept his offering of a can of slightly chilled soda. I do the same, taking much smaller and spaced out sips, but I do allow Damien to pour some of the rum into my can. After spiking my drink, Damien pours more rum into his can then twists the cap back on. 

“What's got you drinking like that on a Tuesday evening?” I ask eventually as we both sip our drinks on the sofa. 

“Work,” he states as if that clarifies anything.

“What do you do again…?” I ask. “I Don't think you ever said.”

“I didn’t,” Damien says curtly as he slowly spreads himself out over his half of the sofa. I, however, sit crosslegged on my side, facing the shitty tv that I got off of a second-hand website. 

“.....Then what do you do?” I prompt after Damien doesn't say anything after a moment. 

“Play the violin.”

“Haha, and I work as night security.” I snort, taking another sip of my drink. I slowly become aware that I'm not sober anymore, Only slightly buzzed. it's been so long since I've had alcohol that it snuck up on me.

I have an urge to put one a movie or something, just so there is background noise instead of deafening silence. Damien grunts in annoyance as I scroll over my watchlist on Netflix. I end up putting on a nature documentary about sharks. 

“I hate the ocean,’ Damien half-slurs at some point. I’d become completely entranced by the show that Damien’s voice made me jump when he spoke. 

“Scared of sharks? I can change-” I start but the annoyed shake of his head makes me stop. 

“no, like the water,” he clarifies but doesn't elaborate.

“can’t swim?” I joke, giving him a gentle elbow. I realize with sudden clarity that this is the first personal information I know about Damien and the first time I've touched him. It's not like we've played twenty questions or anything. All I know about him off of his Facebook is that he rarely posts anything and that he doesn't have any friends. 

“No,” He says forcefully And I can tell I’ve thrown his usually well-kept hand. “The current. It’ll just drag me out to sea and then I’ll be alone.” 

It’s deeper than that though. The fear is irrational, sure, but it's not the ocean that’s the issue. He doesn't want to be lonely.

“I can understand that, “ I say softly. “I don't like swimming either.”

“It's not the swimming!” he growls, holding his can tighter and I hear it start to warp under his fingers. 

I want to drop the subject with such force that it almost knocks the wind out of me. I don't want a tipsy and angry Damien on my hands.

“Woah, hey sorry I was just trying to empathize with you.”

“I'm finished with empaths.” he hisses. I don't understand what he means and I can tell my expression shows that. “You could never understand,” he mutters, draining the last of his can before taking a straight swig of rum. I wince in unneeded sympathy.

“oof, edgy,” I say before I can stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. “Look,” I start again, trying to collect my slippery thoughts into a sentence, “we all have fears. I don't like swimming and you don't like the ocean. We just won't go to a beach then.”

“I don't want to talk about this. Why does it look like you strangled a highlighter?” he deflects, pointedly looking at my hands that are splattered with neon yellow paint. I have the sudden urge to tell him, but I hold it in. He doesn't need to know about the tagging. That’s between me and the wall I painted, so I stay silent. 

“Ah-ha! Not such a talker when it's about you, are ya?” Damien wobbles slightly as he leans closer into my space, his eyes are like daggers that are trying to pull out all my secrets. “Common, I know you want to.”

“No. you don't want to talk about the ocean, I don't want to talk about tagging.”

“Oooh,” he laughs as if he’s finally cracked a secret. “You one of those taggers? I didn't peg you for a disobedient little boy, Mr. working 9-5.

“830 to 430, but just because I work at a coffee shop doesn't mean I can't do… that.”

“Common, Dannie.” he purrs. “Take some ownership of your misguided youth.” 

“What do you know about my youth? You don't even know me.” I snap, my emotions bubbling to the surface too fast to push down. 

“And nor do you know me.”

“I know you're afraid of being alone!” the words come out before I can catch them and I feel satisfied for a moment before I regret ever taking a sip of my drink.

Damien goes deathly still, the cocky smirk on his lips falls instantly and his eyes go dark. “I said I didn't want to talk about that.”

“You don't always get what you want, Damien. I don't want to talk about-” but something in me stops. I don't want to talk about it anymore, so I don't, I don't even know why I stated in the first place.

I guess I never really know when to stop, do it?

“I always get what I want, Daniel. It's ironic, but I do. Even if I don't know I want it.or I used to anyway.” Damien says, his voice crescendoing as he talks, his anger bleeding into his words just like my vision is slowly blending at the edges.

“Oh yeah? So you're were just handed everything? Did your parents spoil you or something? Give you everything-”

“Shut the fuck up.” If Damien was in a cartoon, his eyes would be red and his teeth would have turned to fangs with the amount of anger seething under his skin. 

“Geez, sorry,” I laugh. The rum has fully hit my bloodstream and I can't seem to keep a straight face. Damien though, for all of his drinking, seems soberer than I am at this point.

I give myself a few minutes to cool off, but every time I get distracted by the angry look on Damien's face and start laughing all over again. Its a nervous hysterical laugh, im terrified the guy is going to lunge at me like a provoked guard dog. Eventually, however, his expression softens slightly and he gives a hesitant chuckle. 

“You are a fucking lightweight arent you?” he groans, sinking into the couch more and trying to block out my laughs, with I find hilarious. His hair is sticking up in all directions, even after he runs his hands over it a few times. My eyes are drawn to a scar that runs from his lip up to his nose, it moves stiffly as he licks his lips before giving me a side glare.

“Haven't had a proper drink since I was 18,” I confess to him ina whisper.

“Well, I'm assuming you're over 21, so happy first legal drink. Don't hate me too much tomorrow.” he chuckles, staggering to his own slightly drunken feet. I can tell he's got some experience under his belt because it would be passed out on the floor with how much he drank.

“Wait!” I yell, too close to Damien as he’d moved towards me. The sudden loud noise makes him flinch. “It's my meds!”

“Shut up. what are you-” Damien starts, confused and annoyed.

I don't let him finish as I'm already pouring my knowledge onto him. “Well, you see I take a fuck ton of pills. Mostly for my seizures but!” Then I drop my voice back to a whisper. “But, I have these really funky hallucinations, and I need to have like... even more.”

“Yeah no shit,” he says absently, much too engrossed as he tries to pull off his shoes with little success. 

“Yeah so anyways they basically make me drunk faster,” I say as if Damien isn't ignoring me in favour of tugging off his socks and leaving them on the floor.

“So…. exactly what I said.” Damien sighs a moment later, shoes and socks are forgotten as he grabs my can as I'm bringing it to my lips and chugs the rest of my drink

“Hey!”

“You've clearly had enough. Let the adults drink,” he turns to go to his room before looking over his shoulder “lightweight.”

“No, no nono,” I rush to correct him, not realizing he was name-calling. “rapid intoxication, due to my meds makes me get ike… reallllly drunk, reallllly fast.”

“Lightweight.” Damien states gain before continuing to his room. I stagger after him, clearly he isn’t getting the point.

“Alcohol sponge. Did you know, '' I start to ramble, a bit of information that I remember from a video popping into my head. “you can blend a sponge in a blender and, and it will put itself back together?” 

I think Damien says something before he's catching my arm I start to fall sideways. His hands are freezing and I try and get out of his grip but he holds fast. “Okayyy, you need to go to bed. You are going to hate me in the morning.”

“Bold of you to assume I don't already hate you,” I mutter, as he helps me to my room, my legs seem to have turned to noodles as I was talking.

“Harsh words.” he chuckles as he opens my door and half throws, half shoves me in.

I have a sudden want to smoke a cigarette, or drink more, or kiss someone, or-

“ I hallucinate about you,” I say instead to Damien as he turns aroud so I can crawl into bed.

He freezes, then collects himself. “the fun kind or where you-” he makes a strange expression.

“Uh? What?” I ask, confused my bis sudden stop. my body is too overwhelmed with the sudden desires I have to do so many things to process anything. I’ve never wanted steak but I have a craving for it regardless. I shouldn’t ever drink again.

He looks uncomfortable and a bit confused but continues regardless “When you check out for a minute... The absent ones?”

“Aw, You did remember,” I mock the voice that my sister uses around her baby.

Damien shrugs at that. “It's kinda hard to ignore when you stop in the middle of a conversation and shatter a jar.”

“Fuck!” I shout, shooting up from the bed to sit up. _my fucking peanut butter!_

“Jesus, shut up. You can't possibly be this drunk.” Damien curses, forcefully pushing me back into the bed like a ragdoll.

“My peanut butter…'' I moan.

“Dead and buried pal. Sleep it off.” And just like that, the soft moment is gone and he’s back to being a dick.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Damien as quite tall (even though he apparently isn't, according to the bright session wiki.) but this is my fic to tall Damien rights.
> 
> also, there is more whump/ angsty stuff in this chapter. there are some descriptions of illness, panic attacks, and possible brain injury. a small part of this chapter does take place in a hospital. if any of these things trigger you then please read with caution

It's my second month of living with Damien when I realize there's something different about him. Usually, he's extroverted, trying to make shitty one-sided conversation or always in the same room as me when I'm home. But for the first time in a while, he still hasn't left his room or done much of anything by the time I've left for work.

It's strange but Damien tends to drink too much and his hangovers are nothing I want to be part of, so a late Monday morning for him probably isn't out of the normal

Work is uneventful as usual. I don't even have any seizures on the bus home. I got a few tips and the bags under my eyes have started to slowly disappear. I've picked up a part-time job on the weekends to help boost my savings and with Damien pitching in for half the rent it's not too detrimental to my money situation. I'm still living paycheck to paycheck, but it's workable. I have a little wiggle room in my bank account but my plan has probably been blocked back at least a year, 8 months if I sell some things and cut back on my already tight budget.

Damien's at work by the time I get home, or at least I _assume_ he is. I still don't know how he even makes money. It's not like he's told me what he does for a living, I can see him doing anything as emotional as playing music as his actual job. Maybe he sells drugs-

 _not funny,_ I scold myself as soon as that thought has crossed my mind. 

I continue to speculate about Damien's career as I make soup. It's nothing too fancy, but with the cool weather turning cold it's nice to have something warm to eat. 

My headphones are in as I'm cooking to Bad Suns while stirring the soup. Thankfully my seizures don't seem that bad today, a huge miracle in my week, so I feel comfortable enough to chop at a quick pace without dropping my kife. 

Suddenly a heavy hand lands on my shoulder and I freeze. Thankfully I'd just set the kife down so my fingers are safe, but my throat chokes off an embarrassing squeak. 

I know reasonably that it's Damien, but my heart still needs to restart itself before I turn around.

He looks like shit. I'm surprised yet somewhat prepared for the scruffy and sunken look of his face. It's not like the crooked nose and slightly droopy eye help him Look any better. 

_dancing in the dark_ is slowly drifting through my ears as I realize my music is loud enough where I probably couldn't hear him if he was calling me. I pull one of my earphones out and Damien's shoulders relax just slightly. 

"I was calling and you didn't respond," he mumbles, looking away from me as he lets go of my shoulder. 

_I wasn't sure if you were spacing out_ I fill in the blanks for him. It's understandable, I'm completely unresponsive during an absent seizure.

"Yeah just listening to some music," I explain, still holding my earphone in my hand as I turn back to the soup, which is filling the kitchen with a creamy aroma of unions and leaks. 

I can't see Damien but the way he says a weak "Okay" makes me turn around. To give him a look over. His usually cocky and confident posture is caved in and slouched in a way that screams exhaustion instead of cool and edgy. 

"Hey," I start, turning the burner down to low so my soup doesn't burn before continuing. "Is everything… y'know, okay?" I'm hesitant to start this conversation but Damien is so obviously not his normal self that I'd feel like a shit person for not bringing it up. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He says dismissively as he flops down on the couch, slowly pulling his limbs into a ball. 

I'm torn between doing more but also knowing Damien has no empathy for people. A taste of his own medicine might be satisfying but could also do more harm. 

"If there's anything-"

"I said it’s fine! Just fucking leave it alone." He growls from his curled up position on the couch. 

So I do. I go back to making my soup as my brain churns over what could be up with him. Maybe he's sick? He certainly looked a bit drained and unhealthy when he'd gotten a good look at his face. 

Good thing I'm making soup; soup always makes people feel better, especially if they're sick. 

It's been a few minutes and all that I can hear is the faint bubbling from dinner cooking and the hushed groan coming from the couch. I periodically check in on Damien, but he seems dead set on taking as little help as possible. He's not feverish but he's exhausted, at least from what I can tell. 

"Dinner's almost done, are you feeling up to some soup?" 

"No." Damien grunts from the couch, curling in on himself more. I'm almost concerned but with Damien's narcissistic personality it's hard to sympathize with him, even like this.

"I could go out and get some veggie and noodle soup if you-"

"No." He grunts again, but this time follows up with "not hungry." 

I bite back a groan at Damien's stubbornness. I'm aware that's hypocritical of me because I'm no better when I'm under the weather. The guy is at least my age or older, so someone is bound to have told him what I'm about to say.

"You still need to try and eat something," I insist, regardless of how obvious it is.

"I said I'm not hungry."

"Yeah and you saying that doesn't make me wasn't to let you starve any less." 

I grab a package of crackers and toss them in his direction, careful not to hit him. I miss the couch by a fraction. Without looking, Damien gropes around for the package before finally grabbing it and pulling out a cracker, eating it, and then lazily tossing the bag back to me. He tries to fix me with a withering look but he just looks dead tired. I'm torn between wanting to help him and wanting to leave him alone.

When the potatoes are soft and the onions have disintegrated the soup is finally finished. With just the two of us, it could probably last us a few days of dinner, even more, if Damien still isn't feeling well. 

I still dish up two bowls of soup, Damien's is much smaller than mine to accommodate his non-existent appetite. 

"Here," I say as I place the bowl next to him on the coffee table.

I receive a grunt in response as Damien curled up even tighter on himself, shaking his head. The lack of resistance worries me so I grab a trashcan from the bathroom and line it with a plastic bag. I place that next to him as well.

"Won't throw up," he says after peeking out from his curled up position. 

"Just in case. You should try and eat some of this."

"Can't."

"Yes, you can. Here." I try to hand him his bowl but Damien makes no move to take it from me. "Common, it's really tasty."

"Is there cream in it?" 

"Yeah. Might be a bit rich for you right now but it's good to try at least."

"Yeah, not doing that." He chuckles before groaning again and pressing an arm to his stomach. I make sure one hand is ready to grab the trashcan if needed.

"Care to enlighten me?"

"Lactose intolerant. Makes me sick." He's still not sounding completely coherent, but it may just be from discomfort rather than anything more sinister.

"Well fuck, I can make you something else? I don't have any chicken noodle soup-"

"Stupid vegan." Damien interrupts, but I can hear the smile in his tone.

"Not vegan, that was way too expensive. Just don't like killing animals when I don't have to." I pause my apology to explain. 

"Ya whatever." 

"Still. What would you eat if I could make it?" I offer. Despite never asking for it, I have a lot of empathy and this guy probably doesn't deserve it, but he's not as shitty once you get to know him. I think I know him more than most. 

Damien just hums instead of giving me an answer. 

*Damien, common." I insist. 

"Fine. Uh, crackers seem to be fine," he mutters eventually.

"cool. Toast also is supposed to be good if you’re feeling sick,” I suggest.

"Yeah sure."

"To what?" I say as I make my way to the kitchen.

"Toast." 

"Okay. Coming right up." I call over my shoulder as I pop a price of bread in the toaster.

Damien says something, but his voice is too muffled what he says after thanks, all I can tell is that he cuts himself off with a choked "fuck." Did he say maybe? Something that started with an M at least. I don't think he called me mom. Maybe Matt? Or some other name that started with an M... possibly Mark? 

Who's Mark?   
It Doesn't matter. 

I poke my head out of the kitchen to see him sitting with his head in his hands, shoulders shuddering.

I immediately go to ask if he's okay, but he's obviously not so I don't. Instead, I keep some distance. If he's going to throw up he probably doesn't want me to see so I wait in the kitchen for the toaster to ping.

It takes another minute for the toast. I start to grab some butter but remember that Damien can't have dairy. Maybe that's why his scrambled eggs sucked.

By the time I get back to the couch, Damien is still. He's no longer shuddering. I'm relieved at first before I realize he's not breathing, or he is but only in small shallow breaths that can't possibly have enough oxygen.

"Damien? If you need to throw up it's okay." I say trying to comfort him, hesitantly rubbing his back.

This seems to be the wrong decision because he rushed to get to his feet and dashed to his room. 

I guiltily put his plate of toast, the trash can, and a glass of water and some medicine in front of his door. 

"Hey… Damien, I'm sorry. Your toast is outside and some meds and stuff if you need it."

I can faintly hear him struggling for breath behind the door and I want more than anything to go in and make sure he doesn't pass out or something. however, Damien doesn't want me around him.

By the next morning, everything but the trashcan and the medicine is gone. I'm a little disappointed to see the toast in the bin; a few bites are missing so at least he ate something. I’m almost hesitant to go to work; if he’s really this sick and can barely manage toast maybe I should stay home. Maybe he’s contagious. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until now. I don't feel sick so I’m probably fine to go to work. Im sure he doesn’t want me hovering anyway. 

“Hey Damien are you still alive in there?” I ask through his door, not loud enough to be cruel, but loud enough to know he can hear me.

“Unfortunately,” comes the sarcastic reply. I hope it's sarcastic.

“Do you need anything?”

“Sleep, but coffee is good too.” this reply is much less muffled, and a moment later Damien opens up his door. He looks worse than yesterday with a hollow look in his eyes and deep-set shadows under them. 

“Didn’t sleep?” I ask, although with the way he looks I already know the answer.

“Ha how did you know?” he jokes, his hands are shaking as he rubs at his temple. “This is worse than I remember.”

“What?” I chuckle. “Being sick?” I remind myself that unlike me, not everyone feels shitty daily. 

“Something like that,” he mutters, grabbing his instant coffee from the kitchen. 

“Do you want something better than that? I can bring you home some actual decent coffee.”

“I can just drive with you,” he says and starts to pull on his usual black hoodie. I swear the guy only owns one outfit; black ripped skinny jeans, a white or maroon t-shirt and a black hoodie. I try to think about Damien in the summer when another headache takes residence in my skull. 

I picture Damien in the same clothes but with bright skis. A flash of him wearing cargo shorts and I want to laugh as it’s so out of his broody character. There’s a different image of him in only boxers sat in front of a fan with a german shepherd in his lap, next the same image but the german shepherd is replaced with a golden lab, and once again the same image of Damien but no dog in sight. 

I blink and Damien is hovering in my space, his hand looks ready to grab me but as soon as I start talking he takes as a step back. 

“I don't drive, I take the bus. Also, if you’re sick you should stay home, you could be contagious.” he’s still giving me a strange look.

Damien scoffs at that. “Don't worry sweetheart, definitely not contagious.” but his eyes still look distant and even now I can feel his worry crowding in around me.

“What? Why are you looking at me like- oh.” it finally clicks together that I had zoned out again. 

“We should go soon,” Damien insists as he pulls on his ratty vans.” I need caffeine.” 

“And I need to get to work. Have a bus pass?” I ask, pulling out my card from my wallet.

“No way you’re getting a ride to work with me,” he says like its obvious. 

“Okay,” I agree. Im not arguing with him if it means I get to skip strangers staring at me on the bus. 

His car is nice, nicer than any car I have ever been in. I don't understand why he’s living in the shitty house we rent with a car like this, the guys must have some serious money. The music is loud rough that it makes me flinch when the car starts, my headache roaring to life as Damien blasts rock and roll. I don’t have to tell him the directions to my work, and im thankful because with the windows open and the music so loud I can't think clearly. 

I have white knuckles by the end of the ride from gripping my seat so hard. Damien knows how to make my heart jump into my throat. The way he grins at me as he presses harder on the as makes my stomach twist and my hands sweat. 

Im tripping over my own feet to get out of his car. Im overjoyed to be alive and nervous laughter bubbles up from my chest so forceful I have to bend over to catch my breath.

“What’s so funny?” he grumbles at me, all serious eyebrows and hands forcefully shoved in his jean pockets, that grin no longer on his face.

“Im alive!” I gasp dramatically, “oh god I thought I was going to die.”

This causes a tiny upturn of his lips and I call that an achievement. “Your welcome.”

“Im not thanking you for that, ever.”

“Suit yourself. you promised good coffee.”

Ah yes, that I did.

“Were technically not open right now, but if Alice is working I might be able to sneak you in.”

Alice is indeed working, as she greets me with her usual “good mornin’ sunshine,” and I can tell Damien won’t ever let me live down that nickname. Alice is characteristically kind and lets Damien crash at the cafe for the morning and even allows me to make him our nice lactose-free lattes. 

“There’s milk in this I can't-” Damien starts to say, trying to give me back the coffee 

“It’s lactose-free, im not going to forget one of the only two personal facts I know about you that easy.”

“What, violin and dairy allergy?” Damien takes a cautious sip of his coffee, his expression changing to something I can't quite place. He doesn’t look happy, he rarely does, but he seems to like his coffee.

“No. scared of the ocean and dairy allergy. I didn’t realize you were serious about the violin thing.”

“Dead serious.” 

“I've-”

“Dan! Doors open in 10!” Jon shouts from the back and I scramble to get behind the counter, my face flushed as Jon jokingly shoves me. “Do you fancy him?” he whispers, shooting a look over to Damien who has been sipping on his coffee. 

“What no! I'm not gay.” is hurry to say, the volume of my voice rises and I duck further behind the machines to hide. Damien doesn’t seem to notice. “He’s a total dick.”

“That you like to-”

I slap my hand over Jon’s mouth to silence whatever filthy thing was about to come out of his mouth. “Don't you fucking dare.”

Damien leaves an hour into my shift, I don't notice him leave but there’s an extra tip in my jar, and the place is empty. It’s a shitty tip, only 50 cents but still. There’s also a note that tells me a street name and a time, which I find creepy and ominous, but better than some of the other shit I’ve found in my tip jar. I tuck the note into my pocket and keep on working.

There comes to a slow period in the day where hat and scarf clad customers arent seeking refuge from the wind. Jon is taking the opportunity to finish baking some coffee cake and Alice is reorganizing the back. I however get to thinking about what possible future is awaiting me at the location Damien (fuck, I hope it was Damien) gave me. 

Im trying to put together what it could be when I see sparks in my peripheral vision, I try and get to the breakroom but there’s such a small window of consciousness that I end up falling instead, I don't even get to know if I’ve hit my head or not yet when I blackout.

Usually, my hallucinations are clear but all I remember when I start to come back to consciousness is a lot of noise and colours flashing. There’s a cold trail of saliva from my lips down the side of my face and when I try and wipe it away my arm doesn't want to co-operate. My head hurts like a mother fucker and can tell I bit my tongue by the sharp taste of blood. 

“Daniel?”

I try to talk but all that comes out is a garbled mess of sounds.

“Hey hey,” Alice soothes, her hands rubbing my back as I groan in pain. “You're okay sunshine, you're going to be okay.” I have no choice but to believe her words over her tone which is stung tight with worry. 

“You hit your head pretty hard and seized for longer than usual, so Jon and I called an ambulance-”

“No!” I try to say but my words still aren't working. I can't afford an ambulance.

“They’ll be here soon, were going to make sure you're okay, I promise,” she says calmly, continuing rub circles into my back. “You might have a concussion so take it easy.”

My mind is racing a mile a minute trying to figure out with my sluggish brain how I can possibly afford this. I might have to take a week off work and- I see more sparks and I don't have time to wonder if that's part of a concussion or another seizure before I black out again.

I'm told I had three seizures and at least one panic attack when I regain consciousness at the hospital. I don't remember much past the first one. I do have a concussion as it turns out and should be on bed rest for the next few days. Dr. Torrie is currently on a call with the other neurologist who has been assigned to my case at the ER. all I can gather from the bits of information I can hear through my ringing ears is that this isn't normal, not for me. I've never had back to back drop seizures in my life and three is too many for my comfort zone. 

The bright white lights of the ER are making my head hurt even worse but as soon as I close my eyes I feel as though I am spinning in zero gravity. I just want to be home and in my bed instead of this bright painful sterilized room.

They want to keep more for observation but all I hear is a huge medical bill that I can't afford to pay, so I refuse. The neurologist doesn't like that and tries to get me to take another MRI and CT scan but again, those add thousands of dollars onto my bill. I know I'm not the typical epileptic. My meds should have stopped my seizures, but im just special. 

My dizziness is getting better and I can make out most of what people are saying to me now. Its been six hours in the ER and I am ready to bolt if they don't let me leave on my own. 

The neurologist and my nurse insist that I be discharged to someone’s care. I don't particularly trust myself on public transit either, so I agree with this. Lora is probably picking up her kids from school and daycare, and mom is out of the question. Im about to get them to call Alice when my phone starts ringing. I fumble to answer it and I can already hear Damien's annoyed voice before the device is even to my ear.

“- I mean seriously I had a really cool set planned and -”

“Hey, can you pick me up?” I interrupt, my words still slurred a little bit. At least I have function of my vocal cords again though. 

“- didn't show, wait what?” Damien interrupts himself, still sounding annoyed but now confusion is bleeding into his voice.

“I'm at the hospital, the one over on 8th? Can you come to pick me up?” I ask again, trying to keep any sort of urgency out fo my tone, like its just another normal thing for me.

“Right now? What happened?”

I'm starting to feel a bit nauseated having to sit up for this long, my head is starting to spin again. Not taking the bus was a good idea. 

“The usual: had a seizure and hit my head, got a concussion. Docs won't let me leave on my own so I need you to pick me up.”

“Ouch. like… right now?”

“Whenever suits your fancy.” I joke before realizing that Damien would take it seriously. “As soon as you can,” I add just to be safe.

“Sure. don't die or anything.” and then he hangs up.

The bastard arrives an hour later, while the nurse is still trying to keep me overnight. 

“I literally can't afford it, I can barely afford this! Not to mention the ambulance!” I end out blurting just as Damien is showed in by another nurse.

“There are people that can help get you that support, I understand that you're worried about the financial cost but its shown in your records that it's atypical-”

“You can't keep him against his will, it's a free country after all.” Damien deadpans as he adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “Heya Dannie.”

“Hey, Damien,'' I reply, shakily getting to my feet but refusing help from the nurst to starts in my direction. Damien doesn't offer any sort of help but his gaze is watching my every move. I know him well enough to know if I start to go down he will at least try to catch me. 

“Im fine,” I grunt as the nurse sighs in defeat. 

She does go over some thighs with Damien, the guy towers over her and looks like the grim reaper with his black outfit and thin face. He still looks shitty but less shitty than I saw him last. Maybe he finally ate something. 

Im discharged (finally) and Damien does have to hold only my elbow when I'm suddenly hit with a wave of vertigo halfway to Damien's car.

Thankfully he drives slower than on the way to work this morning. 

Im not up to much conversation by the time we get home. I make a beeline to my room and flop on the bed. Damien has been instructed to wake me up in a few hours to check if I have any symptoms that are getting worse. It's a fifty-fifty chance that he remembers. 

He does and I would curse at him if moving any part of my body didn't hurt so much.


End file.
